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It takes Illya some time to realise that Napoleon's suits are nothing but armour.

He had, at the beginning of their partnership, mocked him for the care that went into his appearance. Napoleon Solo was a vain man, overly reliant on his physical charms and body, who spent more time than any self-respecting man should in choosing and tailoring his attire.

It was, Illya remembers saying to Solo once, a sign of weakness, and he should be spending more time training and investigating and less preening in front of a mirror like a useless peacock or he would always be a terrible spy. Solo had smiled at him from the mirror, the type of smile he seemed to reserve for Illya, a humourless quirk of his lips that never reached his eyes, and replied with faked nonchalance. "We already know who the best spy is, don't we, Peril? At least I'll be the best dressed."

He had been irritated at the time, once again cursing his luck to have been assigned Solo as a partner, even if they were the most successful team in UNCLE. He didn't know the reason at the time, but Solo's constant preoccupation with his appearance, his vanity and those absolutely ridiculous bespoke suits of his got under his skin, made Illya itch to do something to mess with him, disrupt the perfect line of his clothes and muss his perfectly pomaded hair, and mostly he wanted to wipe that damnably cocky smirk from his lips so much he had almost felt his fists itching to do it.

He knows better now.

Now Illya knows that Napoleon takes such an impeccable care for his outer appearance to prevent people from looking further than that. Napoleon's glib persona is nothing but a careful disguise used to distract from quick hands and a mind like a steel trap, and he should be underestimated at your own risk, as many of their enemies have learned from painful experience. Illya also knows that the careful distance he keeps from everyone is to prevent himself from caring too much, from letting people get too close, but that past that cloth constructed armour the Napoleon Solo very few people get to meet is warm and soft and generous, and would do anything for the people he cares about.

"What can I say, Peril," Napoleon had said the first time Illya had been allowed to mess him up, lips red and swollen and turned up in a genuine smile that left Illya breathless. "I really am a terrible spy; fraternising with the enemy, if only the CIA could see me now." Illya had finally got his wish and wiped the expression from his mouth, licking and biting until Napoleon had been gasping and desperate, pressed against him in one of the million hotel rooms they have made their home around the globe.

Illya has learned since then that beneath those expensive suits hides a body that is everything but perfect, that has seen its fair share of wear and tear, but it is still beautiful. He knows that the pressed and straight lines of his trousers clash with the jagged scar in the small of his back, a memento of a knife fight almost lost, the unspoiled white of his shirts is a contrast to the marred expanse of his skin where more than one bullet and knife have found their mark, and that no matter how many women Solo has seduced, for fun or for the mission, none of them have traced those lines with fingertips and lips, none of them have learned the topology of those scars until they can draw it from memory.

It is both a privilege and a responsibility to be allowed past those walls, one he takes very seriously, taking off Napoleon's suits with the same care he uses on the body underneath.

Illya's hands are incredibly gentle on the soft material of the jacket as he removes it, carefully sliding it down Napoleon's shoulders and arms, his hands smoothing any creases when he hangs it in the wardrobe. He presses his hands flat on Napoleon's shirt and slowly undoes the buttons one by one, carefully exposing that beautiful chest and listening for the hitch in his breath that usually comes at this time. The shirt he fastidiously folds over the back of a chair, unhurried under Napoleon's impatient gaze and whispered entreats to move faster, before he uses his fingers again to map the foreign countries of Napoleon's past etched on his skin, his mouth pressed against that chiseled jaw.

"Come on, Illya," Napoleon breathes, his own hands reaching for Illya with no less care but without any of his patience. "I am going to expire here."

Napoleon pushes forward and steals a kiss at the same time as Illya's hands touch his belt. Illya undoes the belt and breaks the kiss to kneel, ever so slowly, in front of Napoleon. He takes the left foot in his hand, and can hear the resigned sigh from above before it is lifted, allowing him to remove the shoe. He repeats the process with the other foot, and then opens the trouser fly and helps them down Napoleon's hips, revealing his underwear, a garment as nice as the rest of the ensemble, straining over his cock and already a bit damp. He leans forward a presses a soft kiss over the damp spot, and is rewarded with a strangled moan and a shudder.

"I think I hate you, Peril," Napoleon says without heat, voice catching and rough, his hands clenched on Illya's shoulders.

Illya smiles, fluidly standing up to take the trousers to the wardrobe and hang them with the jacket. "You have little patience, Cowboy, you were the one insisting your suits should be properly cared for," he says, because he can't help but be a bit of a bastard. He would care for Napoleon's suits regardless now he knows their importance, but seeing Napoleon squirm and practically vibrate with need while he does it is an added bonus.

Once that is done he turns around to admire the striking figure that is Napoleon Solo almost naked, flushed with arousal and breathing hard, as vulnerable and defenceless as he ever allows himself to be, striped of his armour and all pretences of control.

This is a sight that Illya never tires of, no matter how many times he has been allowed to enjoy it. He crosses the distance between them in quick strides, because he only has so much self control,  and has Napoleon divested of that last piece of clothing and spread on his back on the bed in an instant. He takes his time to stare at him then, look his fill from the perfectly slicked hair, down the bright blue eyes practically swallowed by black and the lush mouth, open and exhaling loudly, the long neck and protruding collarbones, and that sculpted and marked chest, skin taut and flushed over muscle and bone, the trimmed waist and dark curls framing his hard cock, and the shapely legs ending in incongruously bony feet. He takes everything in, the beauty of him, and the way Napoleon squirms under the scrutiny, how he reacts as if the look was a caress.

"Come here, Illya," Napoleon demands, hands reaching for him, and Illya finally gives in, pressing them together into the bed. He kisses him, deep and filthy and full of tongue, and feels Napoleon's shudder against his body, spread his legs to accommodate him and give them both the friction they crave. Illya would never admit it to anyone but this, frantic and inelegant and desperate, is how he prefers them together, is the other reason he takes the time to wind Napoleon up until he is too aroused to keep any pretence of suavity.

This, this beautiful and disheveled creature kissing and rutting against him is the complete opposite of the Napoleon Solo he met for the first time in Berlin, and from the gentleman who takes those elegant women to bed when the mission demands it. This Napoleon chases his pleasure against Illya's body while he tries to devour him, sighs against his mouth as his body stiffens, coming with a moan that all but undoes Illya.

This Napoleon belongs only to him, for now.

And Illya intends to keep it that way for a long time. Forever if possible.